


Invincible

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Restraint [1]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Inline with canon, M/M, Rape, Sexual Violence, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:03:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hibari doesn’t know what to do when it’s his own body that’s betraying him." Hibari thought he was safe believing in only his own trust. Mukuro shatters that illusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invincible

The sense of betrayal is the worst part.

Hibari is very good at relying on himself. He is better, faster, stronger than those around him; he knows better than to rely on the meager support anyone else can offer him. He has made himself wholly self-reliant, someone to be followed rather than someone who requires followers, has made himself comfortable within the space of isolation he has taught himself to crave. In himself there is no need to trust others, no need to fail at those things he sets out to do; there is only his own mind, his own power, and that has never before failed him.

He doesn’t know what to do when it’s his own body that’s betraying him.

He can always tell when Mukuro is coming. The other two sometimes stand outside the door, the one barking insults that are more meaningless than he knows, the other speaking in response so softly Hibari can’t make out the words. It doesn’t matter. They don’t matter. When he gets out he will take them apart, carefully and thoroughly, but right now they’re useless, less than the animals they seem. They offer neither hurt nor help, and in the end it’s always Mukuro who finally opens the door, his arrival heralded by the scent of cherry blossoms in the air.

Hibari doesn’t even know where the flowers are coming from. It doesn’t matter. The faint sweetness that he used to love has gone sour with association, now, cloying and sticky like some poison he can’t fight off. His limbs cramp, his vision blurs into ineffectual haze, and by the time the door opens Hibari can’t even lift himself off the floor to offer resistance to Mukuro’s approach.

The laugh comes next. He knows that too, knows it as well as he knows that he won’t be able to get to his feet, knows that the attempt is futile. He tries anyway. The darkness of powerlessness is already around him, night falling on everything he has ever believed about himself; if he stops pushing at it he’ll be giving up on belief in a future dawn. So he tries, pushes to his knees and gets a foot under him, and Mukuro’s hand hits the side of his head, the impact more glancing than forceful, and it’s still enough to send Hibari reeling, veering until he’d fall if not for the fingers making a fist in his hair.

“You still think you’re a worthy opponent for me?” Mukuro takes a step, drags Hibari bodily off his knees by his hold on the other’s hair, so for a moment the disorientation of the sakura and the sharp pull leave Hibari helpless and dependent on Mukuro’s hold. When the other swings him forward Hibari can’t even get his arms out in time, is reaching too late to save himself from colliding with the wall, or the floor, he’s not even sure which of the two he’s skidding against.

“I admire your dedication.” The voice comes from behind him, dragging Hibari’s blurred attention from what he’s doing as a weight shoves against him, pushing the air from his lungs before he can identify it as a knee against his back, the weight of the other crushing him down and leaving him only the motion of his hands scratching against the surface under him. “This is better than having you unconscious.”

“I’ll bite you to death,” Hibari slurs, the words slipping on the blood in his mouth and the haze in his thoughts.

A hand closes against his mouth, fingers tightening to hold his jaw shut so Hibari is left to hiss for breath through his swollen nose. “Yes,” Mukuro purrs, and it’s taunting, his tone condescending like he’s speaking to a child. “I’m sure you think that.” Hibari’s shirt slides up his back, once-white fabric stained filthy from dirt and blood and worse, and he can’t gain the stability to even lift a hand to grab at Mukuro’s fingers drawing across the bared skin of his back and down towards his hips. This is familiar too, a fight he knows he won’t win, but he doesn’t cave to the shuddering tremors of instinctive horror. There’s no point to that, and it’s not like this is really any worse than what has already happened. So he ignores Mukuro’s fingers pulling his torn slacks down off his hips, focuses all his thought on curling his fingers into a fist, as if he can regain control of his body through sheer force of will. He has his fingernails pressed in against his palms by the time Mukuro has his clothes pushed down to his knees, the rough edges of the nails speaking to the last few days rather than their usual smooth curve. It helps, a little, grounds him in the present moment instead of the dizzy blur of his thoughts, and he starts on his other hand, shifting his arm to press his palm flat to the ground like he’s trying to get up as there’s a damp sound over him, Mukuro sucking against his fingers.

“This is pathetic,” the other says, letting his hold on the other’s mouth go so he can swipe Hibari’s hard-won balance away with a quick motion of his wrist. “You don’t have even a chance of beating me. No one does.”

Hibari can’t see the wall. Everything is going hazy, pink like the sakura over him that he can’t lift his head to see. Mukuro’s fingers are pushing against him, forcing pain up his spine as they shove into his body, but Hibari doesn’t blink, doesn’t form his voice around the ache of hurt as the fingers thrust in deeper and drag against raw nerve endings. He won’t beg for anything, least of all because of something as simple as pain.

It’s worse as it goes on. It’s not the hurt -- the ache fires off instinctive response, certainly, but it’s no worse than the constant hurt across his probably-broken cheekbone, the raw skin throbbing against the cold of the floor. But Mukuro has a read on him now, knows what he’s doing better than Hibari’s confused thoughts can keep up, and when he moves his fingers there’s a starburst of white heat that has nothing at all to do with pain. Hibari can’t resist the way his traitorous body jerks at the forced pleasure, barely gets his mouth closed on the whine in his throat before it drags audible in the air.

“True betrayal,” Mukuro purrs, and Hibari has to fight the urge to shut his eyes against the weight of the present. He keeps them open, blinks short and fast in refusal to cave to the impulse while Mukuro’s fingers work inside him, draw unwilling fire low in his stomach. Hibari can feel himself going reflexively hard against the floor, his body responsive in a way he can’t fight back, Mukuro’s fingers too good at finding out his weak points. The only thing he can do is keep his eyes open, to keep himself fixed in everything about this moment, to make sure he remembers all this as motivation for some unknown  _later_.

It’s no relief when Mukuro’s fingers slide free. Hibari knows what’s coming next, would tense in fear of it if that wouldn’t make it worse and if he had any say at all in his physical response. Instead he lies still, gazing at the dark of the wall in front of his eyes while the knee at his back finally shifts away to grant him the option of a deep breath. Mukuro drags Hibari’s slacks down farther, freeing the other’s legs so he can push them wider, and Hibari presses his hand to the floor again, tries to push himself up as Mukuro’s fingers close on his hips to pull him back across the ground. The motion disintegrates his balance, leaves him slack and dizzy on the floor, and then there’s the stretch of Mukuro’s cock sliding into him to override even Hibari’s determination to focus. He clenches his teeth on the shudder of reaction, keeps his eyes fixed on the wall; there’s a crack in the rough surface, a diagonal shadow running across it. Hibari watches that as Mukuro thrusts into him, holds to himself in that focus as his body flushes hot with the ache of the sensation.

“You’re always so submissive,” Mukuro says over him. He starts to move, each angle of his hips coming in slightly deeper, until Hibari’s jolting with bursts of heat too close to pleasure for him to keep his breathing steady. He loses control of his throat, too, his exhales sounding like whimpers until Mukuro laughs, the sound catching low in his chest, his fingers sliding down to brush against Hibari’s hot-flushed cock. His hands are as cold as the floor under them. “You make a good pet. Without any teeth left you’re just another herbivore.”

Hibari jerks when Mukuro tightens his grip and strokes up over him. His eyes want to shut, his head keeps trying to skid away from the reality of the moment, wants to reach for a fantasy or a delusion or just hazy inattention as an escape. He keeps them open, lets the surge of heat under his skin scorch through him at full force, branding along his veins so he won’t forget this, won’t lose the determination to keep this from ever happening to him again.

Mukuro stops talking when Hibari doesn’t respond. He dedicates himself to his movements instead, rocking his hips forward so he’s burying himself in the other on each thrust, stroking with his hand until there’s not even the space to take a breath between the tension of heat cresting into Hibari’s limbs and along his spine. Hibari breathes harder, capitulation to the demands of instinct he can’t avoid, but he keeps his eyes open, keeps his thoughts as clear as he can make them, even through the convulsive ripples of orgasm as Mukuro jerks him off onto the resistance of the floor. Mukuro comes second, laughing that weird breathless chuckle as he pulses hot inside Hibari, but that’s unimportant too, as pointless as everything else about this exercise in humiliation.

At least he leaves afterward, takes his laugh and his hands and his cherry blossoms with him, and after a few seconds alone Hibari can push himself upright again, can wipe the clotting blood from his cheek and can lean on the wall to get to his feet, fasten his pants back in place against his bruised knees and sticky thighs. It’s a matter of appearances, not of attempted armor; mere clothes can’t protect him when it’s his own body that won’t respond to his demands. But at least he’s alone, can trust his limbs to more or less support him in this circumstance, and if he has to rebuild his entire self from the ground up, he’ll do it.

He’s almost grateful for the lesson he didn’t know he needed. After this, his defenses will be invincible.


End file.
